


Thawing Out His Ice

by Socially-ineptnerd (IAmTheRainbowSheep)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Basically Phil Rask comes to the universe of Sherlock, Blink And You Miss It Slash, Confused Sherlock, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, For Mormor and Mystrade anyway, Heartache, I Blame Tumblr, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I went through the spectrum, I'm trying to pepper my story with all the gay I can, Issues, Johnlock - Freeform, Love at First Sight, M/M, Phillock, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Rasklock, Romance, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Slow Burn, WIP, mormor, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 11:48:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11645937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmTheRainbowSheep/pseuds/Socially-ineptnerd
Summary: His life until now had been colored in shades of gray, and right now, in this bar with the warmth of Phil's hands thawing his frozen fingers, everything was colored in vibrant reds and purples. This was one of those moments that he wanted to file away in his mind and remember forever. On the days that everything was bland and his soul was restless, he could think back to this moment where all he saw was Phil's deep blue eyes and felt like he could fly.Plot: When Sherlock comes back after the Fall to find out John had moved on, a strange twist of fate brings him face to face with John's clone named Phil Rask with the same expressive eyes and the same charming smile but with an obvious interest in him that John lacked, Sherlock decides that he doesn't have anything else to lose. Except, maybe he does.





	Thawing Out His Ice

The entirety of London seemed melancholy today, Sherlock mused, eyeing the gray skies and the people who hurried past each other without so much as a glance at anyone else as if they were trapped in their own bubbles. Imprisoned by their isolation, unable to see the rest of humanity that was just at their fingertips if they decided to reach out. Huffing at the sentimental thought, Sherlock kept wandering aimlessly, knowing that he was only prolonging his inevitable return to a flat full of empty corners and empty pill bottles.

  
Home didn’t feel like home anymore, not since Sherlock came back the other week only to find that the reason he came back had moved on. It was pathetic really, that he’d expect John to keep waiting just a little bit longer, long enough for Sherlock to come back, to be able to say the words that had danced on the tip of his tongue for the last two years. 

  
_“Two years, Sherlock. How could you be that selfish?”_ John had whispered furiously at him in the middle of the cafe he’d found him in, another man on his arm. Mark Morstan. 

  
Sherlock spent two years unable to sleep, his fingertips and feet freezing as he tried to sleep in whatever shelter he found for the night as he tried to dismantle Moriarty’s network in Russia. 

  
He spent two years in dark rooms that had walls that made the sound of the chains echo, and it wasn’t until physical and mental exhaustion won out that he could sleep in Afghanistan. 

  
He spent two years on the streets along with the homeless men and women of America, trying to fit in and avoid the detection of the police as he shivered from under a thin blanket all night.

  
In Serbia, it was only when his own body betrayed him and he collapsed that he could finally sleep. 

  
Then Mycroft took him back home, tending to his weakened body for the few days it took him to recover- well, not recover, he was still sore and in a lot of pain but he was just so eager- and he went to John. And then he went home, and by then it had been midnight, so after browsing through the flat, he entered his own room. He laid in his bed, which was heavenly compared to the hard streets of America and the cold earth of Russia, and stared at the ceiling. Then Sherlock had a realization that made his entire chest ache, a cold and gaping hole forming in the pit of his stomach as he fought back a swell of emotion. 

  
He was still cold. And he still couldn’t sleep.

  
Sherlock was snapped out of his thoughts by the blinking sign on the small cafe, not expensive, most likely just a family business. His hands were freezing, as they often were these days, so without a second thought he entered the establishment. A burst of warm air greeted him, and it was only then that he realized how cold it really was outside. There were only a few other patrons, and Sherlock eyed them all warily, a habit he’d formed from having to be on the run for two years. 

  
“One coffee, two sugars,” Sherlock ordered, hardly glancing at the bartender before he chose a seat at the corner where he could keep an eye on the door. Growing bored quickly, he pulled out his phone, idly browsing through the news. Boring. Everything was so dull, and his arms itched for some action, anything to get his blood pumping once more. Was this what John felt like after being dismissed from the Army? No wonder he’d turned into an adrenaline junkie. 

  
Someone coughed, and Sherlock quickly exited out of the news story about a triple homicide, lest he be mistaken for some type of psychopath. He didn’t fancy another two year “vacation”. “Is someone sitting here?” 

  
Sherlock had to blink twice, wondering if he’d perhaps gone well and truly insane. _John? No, not John, a John clone. A John clone with an American accent. How very peculiar._

 _  
_ “No,” Sherlock replied with a vague gesture to the empty chair, and this stranger flashed a charming smile and took a seat before Sherlock could say anything else. Sherlock watched in wonder as this John clone settled himself into the chair, staring at Sherlock just like John used to stare at Sarah. 

  
“The name’s Phil Rask. What’s yours?”

  
“Sherlock Holmes.”

  
Phil nodded, his eyebrows raising for a second as he took the information in. “Ah, alright. Well, what brings a man like you- since you look a bit posh, if you don’t mind my saying- to a place like this?” 

  
Sherlock smiled a bit, fascinated by Phil’s blatant infatuation, reading the interest in his eyes easily. “The coffee.”

  
Phil smirked, “oh the coffee that was mentioned on the front of the cafe on no less than three sign boards?” He took a sip of his cup of coffee, still eyeing Sherlock. “Are you from around here?”

  
“Baker Street. And you’re from... Minnesota?”

  
“Wow, nice ear. Not many can pick up my accent,” Phil commented, looking impressed at Sherlock already, and Sherlock could just barely bite back the smile that wanted to sprout forward. “Maybe your ears work better than everyone else's.”

  
“It’s a part of my job. I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world in fact,” Sherlock said as he eyed Phil for some information, his gaze turning intense as he studied Phil like a lab specimen. 

  
“You’re from Minnesota but grew up moving from state to state which is why your accent is different than someone who grew up there. Moving constantly and having to make up identities every time you moved made you adaptable enough to be a man of the law. There are marks between your fingers that imply constant usage of dull objects as weapons, even if they’re unconventional and not typically allowed for...”

  
Sherlock took a closer look, eyes darting up and down Phil’s body.

  
“An FBI agent, judging by your stance and haircut and the badge in your pocket. You're capable of taking down threats larger than yourself, obvious by the marks on your knuckles that come from aiming upwards and the scar on your shoulder that came from someone slicing downwards. You’ve got an ex-wife who cheated on you with someone of a more timid and reserved nature, and because you value your work more than your relationship, you filed for divorce.”

  
Sherlock paused for a second, gauging Phil’s reactions and when he found nothing but awe, kept going in a more delicate tone.

  
“You're the type of person who likes to get things done, even if it means doing things in a way that others are too afraid to, and you’re more about the ends than the means. Couple that with the fact that you know how to work the system due to your childhood- and therefore know how others would be able to work it- allows you to be one step ahead of everyone else. That’s what makes you good at your profession: you’re determined to achieve your goal in any way possible.” He went quiet, his heart aching, Adam’s apple bobbing as he stared at the familiar face of a stranger. 

  
“Wow, well that was just... fucking hell, that was amazing! How the hell did you manage to know all that about me? You're a genius!” Phil exclaimed after a few seconds of awed silence, his face lighting up in awe as Sherlock grinned, the pounding in his heart easing before an ache settled in his chest.

  
_“That... was amazing” John had uttered, sitting in the cab next to him, and Sherlock had stared at him in surprise, having already prepared for the rejection and distaste that usually followed one of his long streams of deductions, yet he’d been faced with nothing but acceptance and wonder._

  
Sherlock blinked the memory away, wondering _does John know how easy he makes it to fall in love with him?_

  
“Thank you.” His eyes dropped down to the coffee that the bartender placed onto the table before stepping away, hurrying to take another order. Sherlock missed John, he knew that he shouldn't, yet he did. Bloody Mycroft had to be right about it all. _Don't get attached, Sherlock, isn't that what I always tell you?_

  
Phil eyed Sherlock again, then looked behind him to glance out the glass window. “It doesn't look like it's going to rain, do you want to... go for a walk around the park or something?” he asked, and Sherlock knew that accepting the offer meant accepting something else. He nodded anyway, and stood, letting Phil join their elbows together as they exited the coffee shop. The wind immediately greeted them with a kiss as they stepped outside, but they walked towards the park, both of them accustomed to the uncooperative weather to pay much attention to it. 

  
“So, what do you do for fun here in London?” Phil turned to look into Sherlock's eyes, far too close, closer than John had ever dared to stand near him. His eyes were darker than John's as well, just a shade, but enough for it to be noticeable. To Sherlock, at least, who had spent hours trying to find a name for the exact shade of blue that John’s eyes were when he was trying to remain sane in Serbia.

 

What did he do for fun? He did experiments and he worked cases and he tried not to fall back on his old habits, but could any of that be considered  _ fun  _ by someone who obviously had a need for adrenaline and excitement? “I... don't know, actually. I work on murder cases, I go home and work some more on an experiment, and in between that I just... pass the time by playing the violin.”

  
Phil scoffed, turning an incredulous look at Sherlock as if he couldn't imagine living such a life without going insane. “You're joking, right? You don't go to parties or to clubs? With a face like yours I'm sure you'd have tons of men and women swarming around you the moment you step in,” he commented with a casual shrug. “I'd love to hear you play the violin though, I play the piano and drums myself, but never really had the patience to play something as delicate as the violin.”

  
“I'm not really a bar person. And I tend to be unapproachable, I've been told very often that I scare people off.”

  
The park was pretty calm today, the teenagers that typically filled it probably in their homes playing video games or idling their time away. There were a few parents- single, weary- with their children at the swings, and some couples going on walks, smiles painted across their porcelain features. “I approached you, and I daresay you have quite the opposite effect. You don't push people away, you pull them in.” Phil turned to the wooden building, jerking his head. “Come on!”

  
He pulled Sherlock along by the hand, and so he had no other choice but to jog to keep up with Phil, who led him into the building. Festive music was playing loudly, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses filling the room as they weaved their way through the crowd of dancing men and women. “Phil, where on earth are you-”

  
Then they stopped, and Sherlock had to grin at the playful look in Phil's eyes as they stood in the corner of the club. Phil's hands found their way to Sherlock's hand and hips, and with a laugh Sherlock played along and began to dance to the sound of the drum beat. “Oh, fuck, you're good,” Phil said with a chuckle, not half bad at dancing himself.

  
“You're not bad, but,” Sherlock smirked, “your dance moves seem more fit for a male stripper.”

  
“Yeah well...” Phil canted his head, “When I was bored in Seattle, I figured “hey, I want to learn how to work the pole just in case I become broke”. And there you have it. That's my backstory, I'm a porn star now on my days off, my new DVD is coming out in a couple of months. You should watch it.” 

  
“I can't wait.” Sherlock grinned, feeling as if this was the first time he'd seen color in two years. His life until now had been colored in shades of gray, and right now, in this bar with the warmth of Phil's hands thawing his frozen fingers, everything was colored in vibrant reds and purples. This was one of those moments that he wanted to file away in his mind and remember forever. On the days that everything was bland and his soul was restless, he could think back to this moment where all he saw was Phil's deep blue eyes and felt like he could fly.

  
They danced and they drank, probably more than was responsible and definitely more than was advisable for two blokes their age. They talked about everything and nothing at all, an easy camaraderie having formed between them, and it felt as if they'd known each other for all their lives. If Sherlock Holmes was a poetic man, he would have said that it felt like he'd found his other half, the other piece in the puzzle to make him whole.

  
_It's too soon to fall so hard_ , Mycroft's voice in his mind told him, warning him of the crash that will come once he comes down from the high that Phil gave him, as addictive as the most powerful drugs known to man. Yet Sherlock couldn't be bothered to listen, not with Phil looking at him as if he was the only source of light in a dark and abysmal world, his broad hands holding Sherlock close as they swayed along, the laughter in the air between them feeling like the gentle melodies of the violin.

**Author's Note:**

> My username on Tumblr is socially-ineptnerd, and moriarty-is-stayinalive, if anyone would like to drop a prompt or send me an ask. Tell me about what you think of the story, I'd love to hear some feedback, what you liked, what you didn't like, what I can fix or work on.
> 
> https://socially-ineptnerd.tumblr.com/


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